The Other Big C

I have a short list of ways I would prefer not to die. The top two are lung disease and colon cancer. Don’t get me wrong. My hospice experiences have allowed me to know people dying from all types of cancer, and I can say with certainty that none of it is “the good kind.” But colon cancer scares me more than most.

This is why, two months after my 50th birthday, I underwent a procedure that many of you are avoiding: a screening colonoscopy. (One of my family members has just stopped reading. The rest of you should carry on.) If you don’t know much about colonoscopies, you can find out about them here.

Now that I’m firmly ensconced in middle age, I’ve got a couple of goals for how I’d like to get to the finish line. One is that I’d like not to die from something that could’ve been treated if it had been caught early. This is why I tolerate the annual Pap smear, which is still embarrassing, even after all these years. It’s why I grit my teeth for the mammogram. Having these tests done is no guarantee that I won’t get cervical or breast cancer. It just means I’ll know I did the best I could. And I’m fortunate to have access to health insurance so I can get these screenings — ah, but that’s a topic for another day.

All those good reasons aside, I was not in a happy mood about this procedure. The initial consult took an hour, mostly so the doctor could marvel at my lack of medical history, and it cost a $50 copay. The prep required a prescription medication for which the insurance paid almost nothing, so I spent another $100. It was also going to cost two days of my time. I began the prep yesterday morning. The objective is to flush out the colon so that the doctor can check for polyps or other abnormalities, and he’d like to have a clean field. This is achieved by having me consume a clear liquid diet the day before, highlighted by a regimen of medication and about two gallons of sports drinks. No, I am not exaggerating.

Between getting the drinks down on schedule and the innumerable trips to the bathroom, productivity yesterday was nil, unless you count movie-watching and knitting.

Of course, there was a litany of complaints running in my head. I hate the way this stuff tastes. I can’t get anything done on my book. I can’t believe I am really going to allow a camera up in there. I should’ve bought softer toilet paper. Did I mention that I can’t get anything done? Ugh, this is going to be so embarrassing. And I am really, really tired of thinking about my digestive system.

I countered this whining by recalling a hospice patient whose colostomy bag sprang a leak, which made a microscopic camera in my colon seem like a mere blip on the emotional discomfort meter. I compared this procedure with others that are really invasive — like chemo, radiation, and surgery. I remembered one woman who spent her last days barely conscious, moving mindlessly between her couch and the floor, trying to find a comfortable position that didn’t exist. I don’t know if her cancer could’ve been stopped if she’d had screening earlier, but with no words at all, she convinced me that there are worse things than a colonoscopy. Cancer is surely the ultimate time-waster.

I went in for the colonoscopy this morning, and it was no big deal. If it was, you know I’d be the first to say so. The nurses and doctors were lovely. I went out like a light with the sedation and didn’t wake up until I was back in the recovery room about 20 minutes later. Half an hour after that, I was dressed and on my way to lunch. I’ve been a little lazy this afternoon but expect to be back to full speed after I eat another full meal or two. According to the doc, my inner workings are in fabulous shape, and I don’t have to do this again for several years.

Let me say it again. The colonoscopy was no big deal. Cancer — now that would be a big deal.

Nineteen Days of Letters

At the end of January, I took on this challenge: to send out something in the mail every delivery day in February. It could be a card, a letter, a postcard, or something not written at all, like a DVD or a fabric swatch. I printed a calendar to help me map out the recipients and what I would send them. Nineteen mailing days later, I confess that this project has been harder than I expected.

Some of it was easy. Two of my brothers were born in February, so I picked out some appropriately rude cards, per our tradition, and crossed them off my calendar. I had to send a draft of my book in the mail — that took care of another day. My daughter needed a DVD from home, someone had to be thanked for a cookbook she sent, and a friend’s husband underwent major surgery which necessitated a get-well card, although I’m sure he didn’t have the procedure just so he could get mail from me.

I sent some heart-felt letters to a few people, sentiments that were long overdue. And then, after a few postcards scattered in there to cover the days when I was short on time, I started to run out of steam. This morning, I wrote a note to my husband and mailed it to him from the exact same mailbox where it will be delivered tomorrow. This is probably cheating.

I wrote a lot of letters when I was a kid. I met my first friend in Tucson while visiting here from Granville, and we were penpals for a year until my parents and I moved to a house on her street. Back then, letter-writing was a unit children learned in second grade because it was such an important skill. The teacher taught us the difference between a formal letter, which was dry and business-y, and an informal one. Informal letters, at least as my friends and I wrote them, all began the same way.

Dear _________,

How are you? I am fine.

Then you would fill in with some newsy bits about which class you liked best in school and an anecdote about the family dog, ending with

Write back soon!

Love,

Michelle

When we moved away from Granville, I exchanged letters with my grandmother for nearly 20 years. I wrote letters to my friends in Tucson when I went away to college and to my college friends while home on summer break. And they wrote back because we were living in a prehistoric time when the internet did not exist, and we had no other way to stay in touch.

And that, Dear Reader, seems to be the problem with this experiment. No one has written back to me. After I’ve come up with something to say and gotten it down on paper — complete with scratch-outs because this medium doesn’t have a “delete” button to create the illusion of perfection — I’ve received no reinforcement for ever doing it again. It’s just dead air out there. I don’t know if something I wrote made someone happy or confused or if it even arrived. My notes seem not to have sparked any ongoing correspondence. No response will greet me in the mailbox a few weeks from now. It’s very unsatisfying.

This makes me sad. Letters are a record of our history, our emotions, and a window into our relationships with each other. Unfortunately, letter-writing is dying. In another generation or two, it will be completely lost. Thoughtful correspondence is being replaced by…how else to say it…bullshit. People communicate more frequently than they ever have, but they don’t say much that needs to be savored or saved. Quantity has overtaken quality in what we share with each other. As a writer, this bums me out. As a literate human, it might bother you a little, too.

However, with just a few more mailing days left in February, I will persist. Another birthday greeting, maybe a note to my late friend Nancy‘s husband. I’m sending a card, with a picture of chimpanzees on the front, to our 5-year old granddaughter. She probably won’t write back to me because no one will teach her how. Pen and paper is so 20th century. So are the letters my grandmother wrote to me 35 years ago. Still, I’m awfully glad I have them.

Getting Out

I think too much. I especially think too much when I’m trapped on that silly treadmill or elliptical machine at the Y. And as I watch the other people around me, huffing and puffing their way to nowhere, here’s what I’m thinking about.

I live in a place where the sun shines 300 days a year. This is February and it’s 65 degrees outside, so why are we under these fluorescent lights? And after half an hour, where will we be? Exactly where we started, like rats on a wheel.

I can’t stand it. I need to do my sweating outside.

Last Sunday, Mike and I took the dogs for a hike in the Tucson Mountains, west of the city. The view was much better than inside the gym. Look at that sky. That’s our normal shade of blue.

Saguaro cactus

This is a saguaro, the iconic cactus of the Sonoran Desert in southern Arizona and western Sonora, Mexico. (Pronounce it “sah-wah-roe” — the g is silent.) The saguaro doesn’t grow in Albuquerque, nor will you find any in Texas. And that t-shirt your sister sent you from Las Vegas with the saguaros on it? Bogus. They’re unique to this region. Most of the time, they grow straight, like the ones in the background of this photo. This cactus took a weird turn. They’re filled with water, so a mature, well hydrated saguaro can weigh a couple tons. Several years back, some doofus was shooting at one, and it fell and killed him. Cactus revenge is rough.

Saguaro spines

Up close, they look like this. Some saguaros can live to be 150-200 years old.

Ribs of a dead saguaro

When they die, their ribs show and they’re still beautiful. On a windy day, the ribs rattle against each other and the sound is mesmerizing.

Our dogs have gotten pretty savvy about staying away from the larger prickly things when we hike. But the cholla (“choy-ya”) was everywhere on this trail. You really have to go out of your way to have a bad encounter with, say, a barrel cactus because it keeps to itself and minds its own business unless you fall into it.

Barrel cactus, close-up

Cholla, on the other hand, is a hitchhiker, with segmented joints that break off easily and cling to your clothing and shoes. It’s evolutionary, a way for the plant to spread itself around without having to do any work. Bits of cholla lurk along the trail like little landmines, so a dog doesn’t usually notice them until it’s too late. And what does a dog do with something painful stuck in her paw? She bites it. Now it’s in her paw and in her mouth. If the human tries to help with bare hands, then everyone gets stuck, so we always carry a comb to flick the spines out without having to touch them.

Cholla

Hiking, particularly in the desert, demands a person’s full attention. It’s too cold for rattlesnakes right now, but we’ve come across several of them at warmer times of year. My reaction to a rattler is primitive and instantaneous, the closest I ever come to flying under my own power. The rattle sounds like this. (By the way, the person who took that video was a nut. Rattlesnakes have a striking range of one-third to one-half of their body length.) Mike will get up close and personal with one, but I don’t have much to say to a rattler except good-bye.

When we have our dogs with us, particularly the young one who is too curious for her own good, I’m also on the lookout for javelinas (“hah-veh-lee-nahs”).

Javelinas are not pigs.

Mike thinks I’m overly concerned, but dogs and coyotes are the javelina’s natural enemies. Javelinas have razor-sharp tusks, and a mother will not hesitate to use them to protect her young. They’re generally nocturnal, but that’s a guideline, not a rule. I met a herd of javelinas once during daylight hours and backtracked immediately to give them plenty of room. I’m on their turf, after all.

It’s not all stickery, scary stuff out here.

Rocks need love, too.

Hole in saguaro -- probably a bird has nested here.

Barrel cactus fruit.

Even dead vegetation can be beautiful.

For the first time in history, most of the world’s humans live in cities. Now that we’ve gotten so removed from the natural world, people prefer staying inside their cars and buildings because everything “out there” seems too scary. I have learned to love the desert, even the parts I have to be cautious about. I have come to appreciate the tenacity of the plants and animals that can survive here. I like the practice of paying attention to what’s around me, rather than expecting to be insulated from discomfort and shocked when it occurs. Sometimes it rains and we get wet. Or the trail is steeper than we expected. Nature makes no promises. Hiking through the desert is not safe and predictable like a treadmill — but at least I know I’ve been somewhere when I’m done.

Word Curmudgeon

Today’s post is born of sheer crankiness. I’m rapidly turning into a language curmudgeon, grumbling under my breath at every example of the way speech and writing are

Lately I’ve been keeping a list of words and phrases that grate on my nerves because they are either over- or misused. Now that we are well into a new year, it’s time to let them go.

Actually. This word has lost all meaning, as has its cousin, basically. Instead, actually and basically have turned into place holders between the subject and the verb of a sentence, like a more educated-sounding version of “uh…” As in, “I actually opened my eyes this morning,” or “He unlocked the door and basically walked inside.” They don’t serve any purpose and need to be retired.

At the end of the day. This phrase might have sounded cool the first 9 or 10 million times I heard it, but now it’s so overused that it has its own web page, which you can look at here. Politicians love to start sentences with it, and you don’t want to sound like one of them. If you mean “ultimately,” just say that.

I feel like… I blame those highly emotive Californians for blurring the distinction between feeling and thinking so that now the former is used as a substitute for the latter. As in, “I feel like I should rotate the tires on the car this week.” I suspect this usage became popular when word leaked out via the therapeutic community that feelings are never wrong. So if you feel that your spouse is a bitch — well, who’s to argue with that? Go ahead and feel your feelings, but if you’re having a thought, please use think.

Perfect. This one is slowly driving me mad. If you try to explain a process to someone under 35, she will interject this word as encouragement for you to go on. Or perhaps she’s trying to assure you that she understands what you’re saying. Perfectly. I recently listened to a clerk in a store discussing an order with a supplier, and she said, “Perfect!” at least eight times in a row. (Yes, I counted.) Save perfect for when those rare moments when something really is.

Step up to the plate. Enough with the sports metaphors already. You are all hereby requested to step away from the plate unless you are carrying a bat. “Take responsibility” sounds like you might really have to do some work, but I like it.

Sort of / kind of.  Sort of and kind of weaken everything that comes after them. On a recent radio interview about the ongoing violence in southern Sudan, the speaker peppered his remarks with these qualifiers so often that he sounded uncertain of his own opinions. You may feel “sort of hungry” or “kind of tired,” but rape as a weapon of war is not “sort of tragic.” These little words have infected the speech of otherwise educated people, making what should be declarative sentences into waffly nonsense.

And finally…

No problem. You say, “Thank you.” The other person responds, “No problem.” Whatever happened to those other two words? Let’s bring back, “You’re welcome.” It’ll make me happy.

Ahhh…nothing like a good rant. Readers, please feel free to add your own peeves in the comments. I know you have them.